


Love Never Is

by pristineungift



Series: The Portamis Collection [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Conflicted!Aramis, Drama, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Missing Scene, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Sexual Content, Some Humor, Spoilers, Swearing, T'hy'la, Wise!Porthos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 10:59:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1302400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pristineungift/pseuds/pristineungift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>As much time as Porthos spent with his brothers in arms, he still sometimes failed to understand them. Or maybe he just had a simpler nature. As far as he was concerned, they’d saved a woman’s life and solved a crime, and thus they should celebrate. Of course, they had incidentally saved the Cardinal’s life as well, but one couldn’t have everything.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>One Portamis drabble for every episode</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Never Is

**Author's Note:**

> The real question is, can you spot the Star Trek reference?

As much time as Porthos spent with his brothers in arms, he still sometimes failed to understand them. Or maybe he just had a simpler nature. As far as he was concerned, they’d saved a woman’s life and solved a crime, and thus they should celebrate. Of course, they had incidentally saved the Cardinal’s life as well, but one couldn’t have everything.

But here they were in The Fox, and only he and d’Artagnan seemed to have caught the proper mood. Athos was in his usual corner, staring at the bottom of his glass like he was offended by being able to see it. Aramis, usually the brightest of them all, sat with Athos, looking equally morose. Hell, even the feathers on his hat were drooping, and his fingers constantly moved over that thrice cursed cross the queen had given him. Porthos had an irrational dislike for that little charm. Every time he saw Aramis clutching at it, he was struck with a horrible feeling of foreboding.

D’Artagnan got his attention, jerking his head at the table where their brooding companions sat. “I know what’s wrong with Athos. But what of Aramis? I didn’t think him that upset about the Comtess’ fate.”

Porthos knocked back the last of his grog, thumping his glass down and then picking up his hat. “Not sure, but I mean to find out. You’ll look after Athos?”

“Of course,” d’Artagnan said, as if there were no doubt. As if he were and always would be one of their number. Porthos steeled his jaw and clapped d’Artagnan on the shoulder. He’d speak with Athos and Aramis about getting d’Artagnan a commission once the pair of them had dried out.

“Good man,” he said, sliding his hat on over his bandana. D’Artagnan nodded and leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Athos. Porthos clapped the lad on the shoulder one more time, and then made his way to the fireside table where Athos and Aramis were trying to drink their misery.

“Aramis, would you mind if I stayed with you tonight? I’ve some tender places that could do with a good soak in that washtub of yours.”

Aramis looked up, and there was something stricken about his expression – some hunted look in his eye that Porthos liked not at all. “You weren’t burned, were you?” Aramis asked, and Porthos hastened to shake his head.

“Hardly. Just bruising here and there. Now come on, before you’ve drunk enough that I have to carry you there. I’m too sore for that.”

Aramis could be contrary when he was drunk. It was better to have some pretense for getting him alone. And if that pretense brought out the nursemaid in Aramis, all the better.

“Very well,” Aramis said, just as Porthos knew he would. He finished his wine, a few red droplets dripping into his beard in a way that made Porthos want to lick them off, and then put on his hat. “Athos,” he inclined his head.

Athos raised his glass to the pair of them, and Aramis stood, swaying lightly on his feet. As soon as he'd vacated his chair, d’Artagnan slid into it, giving them all one of his cheeky grins. Porthos shook his head, his lips twitching. The boy was a natural.

**-l-**

Aramis walked close on the way to his apartments. Porthos was forced to continually switch which side of Aramis he walked on, as Aramis veered closer and closer until they were pressed shoulder to shoulder and Porthos either had to move or be pushed into the middle of the street. It might have been the drink, or it might have been that Aramis just wanted to touch him. It could have even been both – Aramis was a tactile creature, and even more so when he was drunk. And he could be oddly hesitant in asking for what he wanted, at least when it came to Porthos.

They reached Aramis’ lodgings without incident, and Aramis let them in through the little back garden, using a long iron key to unlatch the door that led to his suite of rooms.

“If you want a bath, you best start fetching the water,” Aramis said after he fumbled his way through lighting a lamp, and Porthos was reminded of his pretext for getting Aramis alone.

He scratched at his beard, passing through the sitting room on his way to the bedroom, Aramis a few steps behind him. “Not sure about the bath now,” he said at length. “Think fetching the water might do more damage than the soak would help.” He sat on the bed, and Aramis sat next to him, once again closer than was strictly necessary.

Not that Porthos minded. He loved Aramis, loved that Aramis found comfort in his nearness, that he sought out Porthos’ touch in any capacity. But a clingy Aramis always meant one of two things: Aramis was upset, or he was ecstatic. As he wasn’t smiling, Porthos doubted it was the second one.

He didn’t say anything. Aramis would talk when he was ready, and before then wild horses wouldn’t be able to drag it out of him. He could be worse than Athos that way. So instead of asking, Porthos silently draped his arm around Aramis’ shoulders and pulled him close, tugging his head down so that it rested on Porthos’ shoulder. Aramis went willingly, a sigh escaping him as he relaxed into the embrace.

Porthos took both their hats off, tossing them in the vicinity of the rickety table that stood near the fireplace, and knew that whatever thoughts Aramis was chewing over must be heavy ones when he didn’t protest the rough treatment. Resigning himself to a long night, Porthos gave Aramis a squeeze and settled in to wait. Luckily it was a warm enough night that he didn’t need to lay a fire in the grate. He had the feeling Aramis wouldn’t have let him get up just then.

**-l-**

It was about an hour later that Aramis finally shifted. Porthos was grateful, if only because his arm had been numb for the last twenty minutes. “Get your boots off. Let’s get under the blankets,” he said when Aramis tilted his face up to meet Porthos’ eyes. The corner of Aramis’ mouth went up in a pale half-grin, and he bent to do as he was told, yanking his boots off and shucking his doublet. With a sideways glance at Porthos, he went further still, pulling off his breeches and shirt so that he stood there in only his braies.

Porthos’ mouth went dry, and he had to force himself not to stare. It was far from the first time he’d seen Aramis’ body. He wasn’t sure why this time was different. Perhaps because this time he knew that what he had long wanted might be in his reach. If not today, then someday.

He, too, stripped down to his braies, though he usually avoided sleeping in so little when he shared a bed with Aramis, lest his body give away an interest he’d always assumed was unwelcome. But it was a warm night, and with the two of them beneath the blankets it would be just shy of too hot.

And something in the way Aramis kept sneaking looks at him made him daring.

They got settled in the bed, bickering over the covers and the good pillow as was their habit. They’d done it so many times now that it was almost a ritual, as necessary a step to settling to sleep as closing their eyes. Finally, they were situated, Aramis pressing himself to Porthos’ side in one long line of muscle and heat.

“Out with it then,” Porthos said, sensing that Aramis was ready to talk. He could feel, rather than see Aramis roll to face him. Aramis had put the lamp out, plunging the room into darkness, and Porthos wondered at that, that whatever it was that was troubling Aramis bothered him so deeply that he needed to hide it behind the veil of night.

Porthos felt fingertips against his bicep and leaned into the touch, willing to lend Aramis whatever strength he needed. Wanting to show him that Porthos was _there._

“The Comtess De Larroque. You heard what they accused her of.”

Porthos nodded, then remembering Aramis couldn’t see him, said, “Yes. Witchcraft. A load of horse shit.”

Aramis laughed, and it was the best thing Porthos had heard all day.

“But the basis for that accusation. They… the unnatural relations. With the other women.”

“Oh,” Porthos said.

_Oh._

“The looks on their faces. The disgust. As if it were something vile. Something that by its very nature was anathema, a crime against God.”

“ _Aramis_ ,” Porthos growled, his voice dropping down an octave, his anger filling his throat with rocks. Aramis tensed, and Porthos huffed out a hot breath of air, putting his hand on Aramis’ hip to show that it wasn’t Aramis he was angry with. “I think it was the suggestion that she was drugging them, doing it against their will, that made the people react so,” Porthos said in a much softer tone.

Another laugh, but this one was not beautiful.

“You no more believe that than I do, but it is kind of you to say.”

Porthos clenched his teeth against a noise of outrage. “Your love for Marsac wasn’t vile. It wasn’t disgusting. Real love never is.”

There was a long pause that had the feel of a prayer. Then, “Not just my love for Marsac.”

Porthos couldn’t breathe.

All at once he was light headed and trembling all over, his skin flushing hot and cold. “Aramis?”

His voice sounded high and strange, even to him.

Aramis shifted closer, and he was shaking just as hard as Porthos was. “What if they’re right?” he said, fast and panicky, all his charm and pretty speeches abandoning him. “What if it is a sin? Something reviled by God.”

Porthos brushed his hand along Aramis’ chest, feeling the harsh thud of his heart, his fingers coming to rest on that blasted cross. “Not your God. No God worth praying to could count this as a sin.” Smiling, and feeling as if he might weep or shout, he repeated, “Love never is.”

Aramis made a strangled sound. “As easy as that?”

Porthos chuckled. “As easy as that.”

The whys and wherefores had never mattered to him as much as they did to Aramis. What made him happy and hurt no one was good, and that was the end of it.

Maybe he just had a simpler nature.

Aramis kissed him.

It was quick and chaste, a closed mouthed press of lip upon lip. It burst across Porthos’ skin like a bomb going off. He was struck dumb, unable to move or think, let alone react.

Aramis kissed him again, and this time it was slower, sweeter, and Porthos regained control of himself enough to kiss back. He waited for Aramis to part his lips first, for he had a feeling that this was the first time Aramis had acted on his attraction to a man, and he didn’t want to break the fragile shell of hope and safety they had woven for themselves in this darkened room. Outside these walls the world waited to condemn them, to tie them to a pyre, but Porthos had no fear of flames. Aramis had already set him afire.

“Porthos,” Aramis moaned, and this was something new, something Porthos had never been allowed to see before. This was Aramis in the throes of passion, this was his tongue in Porthos’ mouth and his cock hard and insistent against Porthos’ thigh.

Porthos pushed the linen of Aramis’ braies aside and ran his fingers down the underside of Aramis’ length, gratified when Aramis hissed out a _Morbleu!_ and bucked his hips.

“Relax,” he told his friend, his brother, his soon to be lover. “I’ve done this before.”

Aramis’ hands came up to grasp his shoulders. “What? You – you never said.”

Porthos smirked, and pressed his face into Aramis’ neck so that he’d be able to feel it. “I grew up in the Court of Miracles and then I joined the crew of a ship. It would be more surprising if I hadn’t. It’s more common than you might think.”

Aramis cursed again. “Are you telling me that I’m the maiden, and you are the experienced gallant come to teach me the art of making love?”

That drew a hearty guffaw from deep in Porthos’ belly, all his fears and doubts swept away in this one singular moment of happiness. “Well, you are so very pretty. I’d say it’s fitting.”

“It’s certainly a role reversal,” Aramis began. It seemed like he would have said more, but Porthos stopped him with a much deeper kiss than the first two had been.

After that there was no more talking.

“Get some sleep,” Porthos told Aramis, once they’d both spent themselves. It didn't take long. Things were too new, emotions running too high for either of them to make it last. Aramis muttered something about not needing to ask for the stories behind Porthos’ scars, since he’d stitched most of them himself, and then claimed Porthos’ chest as his pillow.

Porthos raised his eyebrows at that remark, but remained silent.

They could talk in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Braies are linen loincloth things that men wore as underwear in this time period.
> 
> I intended to draw things out a bit more, but Porthos informs me he is a jolly motherfucker and he gets what he wants.


End file.
